Dead Sea

Chapter Seven

We ran into the forest and pushed our way through the thick undergrowth. Vines and thorns tugged at our clothing. A few yards beyond the tree line, the foliage abruptly cleared. Sand gave way to a thick carpet of pine needles, and the trees were spaced far enough apart for us to move freely. Hooper screamed again, his voice closer.

“Cleveland,” Runkle shouted, “where are you?”

He answered with another shriek.

“Hooper!” Mitch cupped his hand around his mouth. “Sound off, man. Let us know where you are.”

“I’m over here! Oh, fuck me. Fuck me running! Ya’ll get over here, right now.”

We followed his cries and emerged in a circular clearing. Hooper was in the middle of the clearing, staring upward. We brushed past the branches and stood beside him. Each of us froze, gaping in horror. I felt my gorge rise. I ran to the edge of the clearing and puked.

Except for the section where we’d entered, the outer edges of the clearing were lined with crosses. Somebody had made them out of fence posts and logs. A zombie hung from each cross, nailed through the wrists and ankles, their legs, arms, and waists tied down with thick coils of bare copper electrical wire. The stench was terrible, but even worse were the flies. Their buzzing filled the clearing. Maggots writhed inside the corpses and fell out of various orifices. They squirmed on the ground. Birds sat on the creatures’ shoulders and heads or perched on the crossbeams. They’d stripped the crucified zombies of most of their skin. What remained were pink, wet, human-shaped things—internal organs, lips, tongues, and eyeballs missing. Their nerves and veins hung like limp strands of spaghetti and bones poked through the glistening tissue. One of the zombies raised its blind head, as if sensing our presence, and moaned. Worms burrowed in the empty eye sockets. Bird shit covered an exposed section of skull. The creatures’ stench made my eyes water.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Mitch bent over and threw up all over his boots.

I wiped the bile from my lips and rejoined the others. My stomach lurched again. The comic books in my back pocket brushed against my spine. I’d forgotten all about them. I was surprised they were still there.

The buzzing flies grew louder. Another bird flew off with some intestine. The grayish-purple strand looked just like a big, fat worm.

Runkle gagged. “Somebody… somebody did this. The zombies couldn’t have crucified their own. They’re not that smart. They don’t function that way. A human being did this.”

“How”—Tony choked—“How did they get them up there? If the bodies were already dead and infected, they’d have turned into zombies before they were finished with the crucifixion.”

“And if they were still alive when they were crucified,” Runkle said, “then how did they turn into zombies? How did they get exposed to Hamelin’s Revenge from up there?”

“Maybe they were exposed and then nailed to the crosses before they actually died,” Mitch said, gasping for breath. “But that still doesn’t tell us why.”

“It was God’s will.”

The voice came from behind us. Hooper screamed again, his voice growing hoarse. We all whirled around, weapons raised and ready. A man slowly stepped out of the forest. He was short and thin, and looked to be in his late forties. A few wisps of white hair clung to the sides of his head. The rest of his scalp was bald and shiny. He was dressed in black pants, a white short-sleeved dress shirt, and had a dirty preacher’s collar around his neck. A small silver cross was pinned to the collar. Sweat stains covered his shirt and there was mud on his pants. His dirty yellow fingernails were long and ragged.

Mitch stepped forward and pointed his pistol at the stranger’s head.

“Don’t you fucking move.”

The man held up his hands and smiled sadly. “You have no reason to fear me, son. I am a man of God.” He had a Hispanic accent.

“What the hell happened here?” Runkle patted the man down, carefully searching for weapons. “Who did this?”

The man’s smile remained. “I told you. It was God’s will. This is the Lord’s work. Only he can grant life after death.”

“He’s fucking crazy,” Hooper muttered. “Just shoot him and be done with it, Runkle. The hell with this shit.”

“Please,” the man said. “As I already told your other friend, I mean you no harm.”

“Our other friend?” Runkle stepped away and holstered his weapon. “What are you talking about? You better start making sense.”

“The man on the boat. He was your friend, yes? He said his name was Turn. He told me all about your trials, how you escaped from Baltimore and traveled here, looking for a safe harbor. I spoke to him while the rest of you were here in the forest. I explained to him what has actually happened—told him all about the resurrection and the life. He’s in the chapel right now. Come, I’ll take you to him.”

Mitch’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Have you hurt Turn?”

“No,” the man said, as if speaking to a child. “Why would I do that? I am a man of peace. I merely told him about the glory of God.”

“I’m telling ya’ll,” Hooper said. “We should shoot this crazy old fucker right now.”

“Shut up,” Mitch snapped, not taking his eyes off the preacher.

Cursing in frustration, Hooper kicked the base of the nearest cross. The ground around it must have been soft, because the post shook and the zombie nailed to it shifted in its bonds. Before we could cry out a warning, the copper wire that had been holding the corpse to the beams sliced through the rancid meat. The zombie slumped forward, now cut into sections. The feet and hands remained nailed to the cross. Everything else tore loose and exploded, spilling down onto Hooper and showering him in gore. It reminded me of a bursting water balloon. Shrieking, Hooper flailed his arms and legs. Blood and half-liquefied tissue dripped from his nose, chin, and fingertips. Putrefied slime ran into his mouth and eyes.

“Oh shit,” he squealed. “Got it on me, motherfuckers. Got it on me, got it on me, got it on me….”

The zombie’s head and shoulders were still attached to each other by a cross-section of rotting musculature, sinew, and tendons. The creature’s gaping mouth worked soundlessly. Hooper danced around, slapping at his gore-covered body and stamping the corpse into mush beneath his heels. The creature’s head split open, spilling maggot-ridden brains.

“Oh, shit,” Tony gasped, staring at Hooper. “Oh, fuck me. Somebody do something. Help him!”

Runkle and I could only stare at the grisly site. Hooper leaned over and vomited blood. He shook his head like a dog, spraying droplets of gore. The stranger didn’t seem affected by what had happened. He just watched with a blank expression, his hands folded in front of him as if in prayer.

“Oh, motherfucker…” Long, ropy threads of red spittle hung from Hooper’s mouth. “Somebody get me a hose. I got to wash this shit off before I get infected.”

Mitch walked toward him. Hooper looked relieved.

“Mitch. Yo, man—help me out. Fucking shit is all over me. Get me some water and disinfectant. Got to wash this shit off. Damn, it stinks!”

“I’m sorry, Cleveland.”

“I’m sorry, too, motherfucker. Now help me out.”

“No,” Mitch whispered. “I mean that I’m sorry.”

Mitch raised his pistol. Hooper’s eyes widened. In the space of a second, Mitch turned his face away, closed his eyes and mouth tightly, and squeezed the trigger.

And then we couldn’t tell which parts were Hooper and which parts were the zombie. They both looked the same.

Mitch ran over to me. “Is there any on me, Lamar? Did I get splattered?”

It was hard to hear him clearly. The gunshot still rang in my ears. I looked him over carefully, and made him turn around in a circle.

“No,” I said. “You’re clean, man. You’re okay.”

On their crosses, the rest of the zombies wiggled harder, stirred up by the noise.

“You shot Hooper,” Tony said. “You didn’t even hesitate. Just walked up and… bang. You killed him.”

“No,” Mitch replied. “He was already dead. You saw what happened.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, I did. No problem there. I’m just saying—I’m glad you had the balls to do it. He was an asshole and everything, but I still don’t think I could have done it.”

Mitch turned to Runkle and nodded at the man in the preacher’s collar. “What about him?”

Runkle grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it behind his back. The man yelled in surprise and pain.

“He’s going to tell us what the fuck happened here,” Runkle growled in his ear. “Aren’t you, pops?”

“Please,” the man pleaded. “You don’t have to hurt me, young man. Please let me go. I’ll be happy to help you, just as I helped your friend. That is what the Lord wants—what he asks of us all. And my name is Daniel, not pops. Reverend Daniel Ortega.”

Runkle released his arm and spun him around. Then he leaned close, his nose almost touching the preacher’s.

“Okay, Reverend. You said that you’d met our friend, Turn. Where is he now?”

“He’s resting in the chapel. I administered Holy Communion to him and then came out here to fetch you all. Follow me. I’ll take you to him. We can break bread together.”

Runkle moved aside and let him pass. Ortega slipped into the forest. We glanced at each other and then followed him; Runkle, then Mitch, and then me. Tony brought up the rear. Behind us, the crucified thrashed helplessly on their crosses.

Ortega spoke calmly as we shoved our way through the underbrush. He seemed unaffected by what had happened to Hooper. True, the preacher hadn’t known him, but it was just so fucking grisly. He should have had some reaction.

“Corinthians, chapter fifteen, verse twelve, tells us: ‘Now if Christ preached that he rose from the dead, how can some of those among you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? But if there is no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not risen; and if Christ is not risen, then is our preaching in vain, and your faith in vain?’ That’s always been a favorite verse of mine.”

“That’s wonderful,” Runkle said. “But I don’t think any of us are in the mood for a sermon right now. How about you tell us what’s been happening here? Who crucified those zombies back there in the woods?”

“I did.”

“You?”

“Yes. You see, gentlemen, with the power of the Lord, I can bring people back from the dead. Just as Christ brought back Lazarus; just as our savior was delivered on the cross.”

Mitch stopped walking. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?”

Ortega turned and winked; then he continued on his way. We emerged from the tree line and approached the back end of the warehouse.

“You saw for yourselves,” Ortega continued. “Back there in the clearing. You saw them rise. You beheld the mystery. They were asleep—dead—and now they are changed. They live again in death. Christ told us, ‘I am the resurrection and the life.’ He is working through his faithful, giving the gift of eternal life to all. This is happening all across the world. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed!”

Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “You crucified them by yourself?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy. I’m not as young or as strong as I used to be. But the Lord is my strength. My sword and my shield. He gives me the power to do his will.”

We approached the chapel door. The preacher reached for the handle, but Runkle stopped him, motioning with his pistol for the man to step aside.

“I’ll go first.”

Reverend Ortega smiled. “As you wish, young man. This is the Lord’s house. All may enter freely. I told your friend the same thing before I administered Communion.”

’ This was the second time Ortega had mentioned giving Turn Communion. I didn’t know Turn very well, but he hadn’t seemed like a religious sort. The statement didn’t ring true to me.

“What do you mean?” I asked, stepping forward. “What’s this Communion shit?”

Ortega frowned. “You aren’t familiar with the rite of Holy Communion? It symbolizes Christ’s pact with man. He gave us his flesh and shed his blood. It is through his blood that we are born again. It is his blood that’s responsible for what you have seen. That’s why the dead return to life—because of his blood.”

“They’re zombies,” Tony shouted. “You and your God didn’t have anything to do with it. Everybody is coming back from the dead because of a fucking disease. Don’t you know that?”

The preacher’s expression darkened. “The Lord has shown you proof. He has shown you miracles—the miracle of the resurrection. And still you don’t believe. You’re just like the first one I crucified. I removed his eyes and tongue before I nailed him to the cross. ‘If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out. If thy tongue offends thee, cut it out.’ Those aren’t my words. They’re God’s. Who am I to disagree?”

Flinching, Runkle shoved the chapel door open. Mitch ran after him. They both shouted for Turn. Meanwhile, Tony and I held Ortega at gunpoint and warned him not to move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” the preacher said. “Not until I die. Then I will—”

“Would you shut the fuck up?”

Tony slapped him with the back of his hand. Ortega collapsed to his knees. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke again, his kind tone had vanished.

“You struck me. I came to you in peace, ready to share the glory of God, and you greeted me with violence. But you will see that I’m right. Even now, your friend is undergoing the transformation. Christ’s blood moves through his veins.”

“What are you talking about?” I raised my hand as if to hit him again, and Ortega scuttled backward, whimpering.

“I told you,” he whined. “I administered Communion. I gave him the flesh to eat and the blood to drink. The flesh and blood of our Lord. The sacrament. He didn’t want to partake, of course. They never do. So I had to force him. I clubbed him over the head and then forced it down his throat before he regained consciousness.”

I reached down and ripped the collar from around his neck. “Who’s blood? Who’s flesh? What the hell are you saying?”

“That’s where the power comes from—the flesh and the blood of Christ.”

Runkle and Mitch came back outside, supporting Turn between them. He looked weak and pale.

“Something’s wrong with Turn,” Mitch said, sounding worried. “He’s really sick.”

I flung Ortega to the ground and stood over him, pistol pointed at his face. “Where did you get the blood?’

“What blood?” Runkle asked. “What’s he talking about?”

Between them, Turn groaned. Mitch let Runkle take all of the weight and stepped forward.

“Lamar, what’s going on?”

“Tell us, Ortega, or I swear to God I’ll blow your fucking head off. Where did you get the blood?”

“From the dead,” Ortega whined. “1 took the body and blood of Christ from those he had already touched. Then I fed it to your friend. Fed it to them all, one by one. I’m doing the Lord’s work, just like it says in the book.”

“You fuck…”

I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut. My finger tightened on the trigger. The gun felt heavy in my hand. My breathing seemed very loud. But then my finger eased. I couldn’t do it. Even now, after we’d learned exactly what he’d done, I couldn’t kill him in cold blood. I didn’t have it in me. It pissed me off—this schism inside. When that bitch took a bite out of Alan, I’d had no problem shooting him. I hadn’t balked yet when it came to wasting a zombie. Yet Ortega was just as bad, if not worse than them, and I couldn’t do it. When that woman had been slaughtered right outside my house, I’d felt no remorse for not helping her. But I felt something now. I felt sorry for this crazy old man who’d butchered people in the name of some insane, murderous God.

“The dead walk,” Ortega babbled, clawing at the dirt. “Ye must be born again. The dead are God’s children—the chosen ones. They shall inherit the earth. This is not the end. There are many doors. Death is just another doorway that we all must pass through. This is my blood, which has been shed for thee. This is my flesh. Eat of it and have eternal life.”

I stepped away from him. “I can’t do it. He deserves to fucking die, guys, but I can’t do it.”

“Ain’t no shame in that,” Mitch said.

Then he shot him. He didn’t flinch; didn’t hesitate. He did it mechanically and without emotion, just like he’d done with Hooper. The first round hit Ortega in the neck. The second tore his head apart. Mitch ejected his magazine and loaded a fresh one into the pistol.

Tony whispered, “Fuck…”

“When I sold Bibles,” Mitch said, “it was fuckers like him that made my job hard. Nobody wants to buy one if they think everyone who reads it is bat-shit crazy.”

“Is he awake?” I asked Runkle, nodding at Turn.

“On and off. He’s really sick. You want to tell us what the hell is happening?”

“He’s infected,” Tony told them. “The preacher fed Turn infected blood and flesh that he got from the zombies.”

Runkle looked sick. “Oh, God…”

Sighing, Mitch stared into the distance.

Runkle leaned the half-conscious Turn against the chapel’s wall and quickly moved away from him. He turned back to us.

“Maybe we could induce vomiting? Get it out of his system.”

’That’s not going to work,” Mitch said softly. “It wouldn’t have helped Hooper and it won’t help him.”

“Guys,” Turn whimpered. “I feel like shit. What’s wrong with me?”

Mitch stared down at him. “You guys go ahead and get the boat loaded. I’ll stay here with Turn. That infection is quick as lightning. It won’t be long now.”

None of us spoke. If Turn understood what was happening, he gave no indication.

“My guts feel like they’re on fire.” Sweat poured down Turn’s face. His fingers kept clenching up and his legs jittered. “And my muscles and joints hurt. I got a killer headache, too. What the hell is wrong with me? Did that preacher poison me?”

“You’ll be okay, buddy,” Mitch said. “Just something you ate. I’m gonna stay here with you until you feel better.”

Runkle turned to Tony and me. “Come on. Let’s get it over with. Our shipmates are counting on us.”

Turn sagged lower, his legs and arms sprawled. “I’m just gonna rest for a little bit. Just close my eyes.”

Runkle looked away. “You do that, Turn.”

“Tell Chief Maxey that I might be late to relieve him on the bridge. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“Sshhh.” Mitch put his finger to Turn’s lips. “No more talking, man. Lay back and try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in a little bit.”

“Yeah, man,” Tony whispered. “You just rest up. Mitch will take good care of you.”

“I can’t feel the sun,” Turn whispered. “Where did * the sun go?”

Runkle walked away. Without looking back, we followed him to the infirmary and began packing boxes of medicine and carrying them down to the lifeboat. On our second trip, a single gunshot rang out. We flinched, paused in our work, and then continued.

“Fuck,” Tony said.

“One more trip and then we’ll start on the food,” Runkle said. “We’ll get as much as we can, but I want to be back to the Spratling before sundown.”

Then there was another gunshot. Then a third. Then a barrage. They echoed across the rescue station, bouncing off the buildings and scattering the birds roosted in the trees.

Runkle looked back at the chapel. “What the hell?”

Four more shots sounded in rapid succession, and then Mitch ran around the corner. His eyes were wide and terrified. His hair fluttered in the wind.

“Zombies,” he gasped. “Came out of the woods. Bunch of them.”

Runkle dropped the box he was carrying and pulled his weapon. “The ones on the crosses?”

“No.” he took a deep breath. “Different ones—from farther inland. They’re much more mobile than the ones in the clearing. Hundreds of them. They must have been hunting in the forest and heard all the commotion.”

“Well, let’s take up positions and—”

“There’s no time,” Mitch shouted. “And we don’t have enough bullets. I’m telling you, there’s too many of them. Just fucking run!”

The wind shifted again and brought their scent. I turned around and glanced back at the chapel, and the dead swarmed into view. Mitch hadn’t been exaggerating. Their numbers reminded me of the hordes back on the pier at Inner Harbor. They advanced on us, slow but determined. I wondered when they’d last eaten. They looked very hungry.

“Shit.” Tony tossed his box aside and fled.

Runkle raised his gun and took aim. The weapon leaped in his hands. With one squeeze of the trigger, he dropped one of the lead zombies. Five more took its place.

“Come on, Runkle.” Mitch tugged on his arm. “Don’t make us leave you here.”

We ran for the dock. Tony reached the boat first. By the time we leapt into it, he’d already started the motor. It choked and sputtered and for one terrifying moment I thought it was going to stall, but it didn’t. The zombies lurched after us, outstretched arms waving, dead mouths drooling. Mitch and Runkle laid down cover fire while I cast us off. More and more of the creatures collapsed, minus their heads. I untied the rope. Tony didn’t even wait for me to sit back down. He hit the throttle and I almost toppled overboard. Mitch reached out and grabbed my belt loop, pulling me to safety. We rocketed away from the dock and out into the bay, leaving the zombies—and the much needed supplies—behind. We’d only managed to get two crates of oranges and a carton of batteries loaded into the lifeboat. Runkle played with the radio until he figured out how to make it work. Then he called back to the Spratling and advised Chief Maxey of what had happened.

Tony released the throttle long enough to pull out his crumpled pack of cigarettes and light one. He inhaled, and then exhaled with a sigh. After he’d stuffed his lighter back in his pocket, he balled up the empty pack and tossed it into the water. It bobbed on top of the waves. We watched it float away.

“Well,” Tony said. “That was my last pack of smokes. I guess it’s all downhill from here.”

“Maybe we’ll find some at the next stop,” I said.

“No.” Tony shook his head. “I don’t think there’s gonna be any more stops, Lamar.”

I didn’t respond. Mitch stared out at the ocean. Runkle was still talking to the chief.

“Yep,” Tony sighed, “things are going to get a lot worse.”

He smoked his last cigarette down to the filter, and after he flicked the butt into the water, he began to cry.